I told you it did not have a very happy ending. The poor little leprechaun. After three months in the cell he tried to coax a merry jig from the accordeen.....but it would only play "Lady obv Spain" no matter how hard he tried. He eventually attempted to hang himself by the shoulder straps (unsuccessfully) and was carted off to the Accordia State Institution for the Squeezebox Challenged, where he resides to this day, locked away in a tiny padded room where he paces and gibbers to himself in 3/4 time. There are no photos, other than the one with BeeDubya and it is probably for the better.

"The bodhran fellow formed an orchestra of bodhran beaters, but that is another story (with not such a happy ending, I might add...)"

Well, here's that story...

First off, if you're going to read a story about a "bodhran fellow" you need to know a couple of things about bodhrans. Like how the word is pronounced. It definitely is NOT pronounced "bod-ran". If you want to make a total idiot of yourself at an Irish music session, just call it a "bod-ran". It's a good way to guarantee that NOBODY will buy you a beer. The proper pronunciation is "bow-ran" with the "bow" rhyming with "cow". I only make a point of this because you are wasting your time reading this crap so you might as well learn something and, who knows, if you pronounce the word correctly someone might buy you a beer. You also need to know that the bodhran is played with a double-ended beater, sometimes called a "tipper". Somehow, bodhran players, sometimes known as "bodhrani", wiggle their wrists in such a way as to play really cool rhythms using both ends of the tipper. I don't understand exactly how they do it 'cause I don't play the thing. If you want an explanation, ask my wife. She's pretty good at it.

Anyway, the bodhrani in the story Tweed related was named Seamus, as are all male children born in Ireland except those named "Patrick" or "Gabriel Byrne". By the way, "Seamus" is pronounced "Shame-us", not "Seem-us". That's another way to gain or lose a free beer. And, Seamus, like all Irish-born bodhranii (Yes, that's the proper plural form, not "bodhranis". Learnin' a lot here, ain'tcha?), was five feet tall, had red hair and smoked like a chimney.

Seamus and I had some pretty good times busking around that little island, though he did get a little grumpy every now and then from having to play the same two songs over and over again. Many's the time he'd say to me, "Bee-dubya, you arsehole, when'r ya gwine ter layrn a coopla fookin' jigs? Yer aboot ter drive me fookin' batty wid naught but this 'Lady of Spain' an' 'Beer Barrel Polka' shite!" But I would just grin and keep on playing them. You see, when you're really caught up in the accordion, when your eyes are glazed over, your tongue's lolling out, and the drool-cup attached to your instrument is about half full, you don't really care what you play. You just have to keep playing.

But, as Tweed related, there came a time when my accordion and I were called upon to do grander things than play for change on street corners. Unfortunately, the vision that the Mayor of Accordia had for the Grand Marching Accordion Band didn't include bodhrans so Seamus and I were forced to go our separate ways. I can still remember the last thing the dear fellow said to me: "Bee-dubya if I ever hear 'Lady of Spain' er 'Beer Barrel Polka' agayn, I'm gwine ter beat th' fooker whut plays 'em aboot 'is head so serveerely 'eel wish 'is moother 'ad joos tossed 'im down th' well wen 'ee wuz boorn."

And, Seamus did, indeed, gather a couple of dozen other bodhranii, all named Seamus, and attempted to form a marching bodhran band. But, sadly, it just wasn't meant to be. He didn't realize that it is impossible to walk and play the bodhran at the same time. All the band-members would be playing in perfect rhythm while they were at rest, but as soon as they began to march the whole thing fell apart. So, they decided to just stand still, which led to disastrous results since most of their bookings were for parades.

After the marching bodhran band collapsed, and the personal injury lawsuits were settled, Seamus decided to retire from active bodhran playing. He bought a little farm on the island and began to raise bodhrans. Yes, contrary to what many people believe, bodhrans are not produced in a factory or workshop, they are born. In fact, their reproductive rates can be stupendous. Just consider your typical Thursday night music session at your local Irish pub. When the session first started there was probably only one bodhrani there. But then several audience members, sometimes referred to as "drunks", saw and heard the bodhrani playing and said to themselves, "Hmm... I could do that. It sounds cool and looks easy." And the next week every other moron that walked through the door had a bodhran under his arm. Now, it is physically impossible for that many bodhrans to be manufactured, sent to stores and shipped to drunks in that short a time. The only possible way so many bodhrans could appear in such a short time would be by the mechanism of reproduction.

And Seamus's personal drum turned out to be a brood-sow bodhran of exceptional fertility. She spit out little baby bodhrans with a frequency that made hamsters look downright celibate by comparison. Occasionally there would be birthing problems and miscarriages, but Seamus found that there was a market for even the most malformed monstrosities. Percussionists will beat on anything even vaguely resembling a drum as long as it makes noise.

But, even the brood-sow bodhran's ability to produce offspring at an alarming rate was not enough to provide for the demand when a new Irish pub opened on the south end of the island. Seamus was receiving more orders than he could fill and he committed the one cardinal sin that bodhran breeders everywhere know will surely bring their downfall. He began to allow young bodhrans to leave the nest before they had been properly paper-trained! You see, it's the breeder's responsibility to assure that all young 'hrans have received at least a modicum of training before they are released upon an unsuspecting public. Bodhrans sold too early never mature correctly and their players never master even the simplest of rhythms. If you ever go into an Irish pub on session night and hear six people beating on bodhrans in six different rhythms it's because five of the bodhrans were sold before they had been paper-trained.

Anyway, a few weeks after that new Irish pub opened, the jig and reel police happened to pay the place a visit on session night. There were ten people wailing on bodhrans and it was patently obvious not a damned one of them had any idea what he was doing. So, the cops immediately deduced that they had a gaggle of untrained bodhrans on their hands. They interrogated a couple of the "players" and found out where the immature drums had come from. A SWAT team was called in and Seamus's bodhran farm was raided that very night. The brood-sow bodhran was sent to a home for wayward frame-drums and poor Seamus was sentenced to two years solitary confinement in a cell with nothing but a cot, a slop-jar, and an accordion.

I understand now! "Pate de foie gros" means "Mashed-up fat phooey with some seasonings which has to be washed down with copious amounts of wine so you can't really taste what you're eating".

Je le dig, as we used to say in Arles, as we sat around the cafe, swilling vin tres ordinaire and stuffing our face with aspargus. Claude would do his Vinny imitation, cupped his hand behind his ear and saying "Eh? Que vous dit?" and Vinny would tell Claude to "va a l'enfer" and pretty soon Les Deux Maggots would be trashed, les flics would be all over the place, and Claude, Vinny, Pierre, Paul, Pablo, Edgar, Camille, Berthe, Alfred, Edouard, Frederic, Mary and the rest of the gang would be hauled off on drunk and disorderly charges yet again. Ah, Ou sont les neiges d'antan?

In which case I certainly do not meet all obv that criteria either as I am certainly not fat! I would, however, not mind it very much if I had a large French woman to sit on the edge of my bathtub, mewing and purring while I make my morning ablutions.

I wish that these incessant attacks and innuendos directed against me would cease!! I am not, nor ever been near to being a French cannibal, goose liver nor should I ever be regarded as a drooling, gibbering donkey!! The moon is full, the tide is high and my cone is completely erect. I am at the zenith of mental capacities!!

One need not have goose liver for a pate. Pate can be made from pheasant liver, pork liver, beef liver and even tofu liver (if you're a veggie). "Pate de foie gros" would translate as "pate of the fat fool" (I think), which quite support the oft-heard assertion that the French are cannibalistic.

I have a nine-month-old kitty named Hans who loves to sit on the edge of my tub. He is genuinely mystified by my love of water, that vile stuff. Don't know if he can see his reflection with all the whatnot of foam and minerals and such I put in there. He certainly seems fascinated with the whole idea. Of course it doesn't help that I'm always talking to him, teasing him :) He'll even dip a paw in a little sometimes.

Ok, as for words, how about "pshaw"? I swear I am going to start using that word in speech; I see it so much in writing. :)

Your fastidious scholarly imitation, good Tweed, should disabuse anyone of the adviseability of challenging your curlicues, no matter how farfetched, outlandish, impregnable, inconceivable, or unbearable they may be. You are a pate de fois gras beyond question.

No, no, no....I beg to differ with that explanation as it is obviously too well thought out and researched beyond comprehension.

The cry of "E-voe" actually originated during early bronze age Britain when early Brits first took to the sea in boats of animal skins.

These people would first paint themselves blue and then head for the ocean, thinking the blue paint would camoflage their bodies from the French Royal Navy (during the reign of Neo-lithic King Pepin LeGros). The hapless sailors, thinking themselves to be invisible, would row head on towards the French fleet, screaming at the top of their lungs:

EEEEEE....VOE ME HEARTY'S, EEEEEEEEEEEV....OOOOOOOHHHH!!!

Of course, the French, being somewhat further advanced at that time, were able to detect the attack by using binoculars and telescopes (bronze), developed by famed Parisian Mayor and High Sheriff, Galileo. These instruments were very well designed and allowed the lookouts to actually view the savages even while they were still on dry land applying "camoflage" paint to themselves!! The lookout would call down from his post, "I have the Blues, I have the Blues, Blues is coming!!" And then the rout commenced as soon as the skin boats came into range of the French cannons (also bronze).

It was only a matter of time before "EEE..VOE" became the now familiar, "HEAVE HO", a phrase still in use today during tug of war games. Also, it was not long until Memphis Slim moved to Paris to play his style of music for the nation who first identified themselves as being somewhat blues oriented.

I certainly hope this clarifies your query, my dear Bee-Dubya, and will aslo quell any notions held by some here at Mudcat, obv my being a drooling half-witted idiot.

Modernly, "evoe" has been somewhat purloioned by neo-mystic groups like Wiccans because it is fancied as a special phrase for invoking high mystic something-or-others. In traditional Green drama it is used as an invocation of Dionysius, the goat-god of the Bacchanale. From Antigone:

Brightest of all the orbs that breathe forth light, Authentic son of Zeus, immortal king, Leader of all the voices of the night, Come, and thy train of Thyiads with thee bring, Thy maddened rout Who dance before thee all night long, and shout, Thy handmaids we, Evoe, Evoe!

Has anyone here ever actually hollered the work "evoe"? I'm always coming across it in crossword puzzles. The clue is usually something like "revellers cry" or "bacchanalian shout". I am absolutely certain that in all the bacchanalian revelling I did during my younger years, the word "evoe" never crossed my lips. Was I just out of the loop? Culturally deprived?

Dear Mother,Thank you for defending my right to be naked and cold. I forgot that was my journey, and you have so thoughtfully reminded me of my journey that I am sitting here at my computer with harder nipples than I really want and an ass that is quite chilled. I will sit here with hardened nipples and a quite cold ass until I decide I have had enough. Then it will be a simple thing of prying my frozen ass off of my chair and finding my comfort spot to retire to, for the rest of the day.Thank you, Thank you. My mission in life is not over. I am still alive and cold. I think it's time to either turn up the heat or go to Florida to seek refuge.

Amos, Pardon me for pointing this out, but that spells "BULLSTHITW" not "BULLSHIT." You need to indent to make it work properly, and resist that capital T and W.

B is for the beauty I see in you U is for the underwhelm I feel L is for the laughter L is for more laughter S is for the sillyness----that only you make real H is for hilarity abounding I is for infinity you fill T is for the thousand posts resounding----which manifests our silly Common Will.

Thank you so much for the poems, children. I shall stick them on my refrigerator with little magnets and cherish them. Sure, they're not exactly T.S. Eliot, but they're from my very own children and they are special because my children are special.

B is for the beauty I see in you U is for the underwhelm I feel L is for the laughter L is for more laughter S is for the sillyness That only you make real H is for hilarity abounding I is for infinity you fill T is for the thousand posts resounding Which manifests our silly Common Will.

Oh Bullshit we cannot walk by, ignoring! Bullshit, we must answer to your call!! Others claim pure reason's pull, But we answer, simply, "Bull!" And it's "Bullshit" say we one And say we all!